Perfection
by hyenateeth
Summary: She is almost more like an angel in Russia's eyes, sexless and beautiful beyond femininity, and it makes a strange feeling bubble up inside her, more than jealousy, darker and hungrier, but Russia cannot think of a word to describe it. Fem!Russia/Fem!China. Kink meme de-anon. Dark fic, warnings inside.


Another kink meme de-anon. The prompt was for dark fem!RoChu, centering around fem!China's bound feet and featuring creepy/psychotic fem!Russia.

Contains: fem!Russia/fem!China (so genderbending/Nyotalia), mentions of rape, graphic descriptions of bound feet, some sort of sexual focus on said feet, some smut. Dark fic. (Oh man I hope I didn't miss anything I should warn for...)

This is set somewhere in the past, when China had previously established power but Russia was still a developing nation, but it's not a historical fic.

* * *

**Perfection**

It is her boss' idea, and honestly, Russia does not like it. She feels uncomfortable around China, because the woman is so small and pretty and delicate, yet so powerful. Russia does not know how she feels about this.

But her boss insists, because Russia is still somewhat young, despite almost appearing to be an adult, and he wants to show off her new culture. He wants her to dance before China, show how much she has learned.

Russia does not want to, because she is not as good as she wishes to be when it comes to the art of ballet, and it is cruelly ironic that she is sure if small, thin China were to take it up she would be better than Russia, because Russia is not thin and never will be, not with her big heavy bones, and her weight is unevenly distributed because she is still not _quite_ mature.

She thinks she is jealous of China.

Yes, that makes sense, because everything about China is so very perfect. Whenever they meet she sits before Russia, legs folded under her, adorned in fine silks and soft smiles, so pretty and graceful and _perfect._ She is everything Russia is not.

Russia doesn't like that. She does not want China to be better than her. She wants to be the greatest, most powerful nation, she wants to lord over China and dominate her. She wants to be the perfect one.

So, she thinks, maybe if she tries hard enough she will become perfect at dance, and impress the Asian nation, maybe she will think Russia is better than her. (Of course, no matter how she does she knows China will smile and praise her, because China is just so _nice._ No one has ever been nice to Russia like China has. She does not know what to make of it.)

So, once her boss tells her that yes, she will definitely be performing for China, Russia begins to practice more than her daily regime. She practices as much as she can, everyday, until every muscle in her body is sore, and her feet are bleeding and her toenails are broken, and then she practices more. She feels as if she has broken her feet twenty times over, but the pain is worth it if this will move China.

Then the day comes, and she is standing before China. The nation sits in a large and impressive hall, on a small platform, as she always does, legs under her, dressed in so many fine silk robes that her female figure is hidden, and she is almost more like an angel in Russia's eyes, sexless and beautiful beyond femininity, and it makes a strange feeling bubble up inside her, more than jealousy, darker and hungrier, but Russia cannot think of a word to describe it.

In comparison Russia seems almost naked, dressed in her tight-fitting dance garb, standing before the seated nation, long fair hair tied up, scarf stripped away, like she is an animal, ready to be judged to see if she is acceptable for slaughter.

China smiles at her. "I've looked forward to this. I've asked that no one else attend, so you don't get nervous."

Russia wants to say that it is far worse for it to be just her, just China seeing her, but she does not. Instead, she simply nods at the small orchestra of musicians she has brought, and they begin to play.

And then she begins to dance.

At first she is stiff and knows it, trying to remember the name of every move that France taught her, _fouetté, brisé, deboulé, _but the music swells and she feels it overcoming her and then she is lost, she is one with the music. In the back of her mind she wonders why she has never felt this was before, and she wonders if China, in all her angelic beauty has blessed her in someway.

She dances, and as she dances she feels as if she is flying. She is no longer in control of her own body, the music is.

And the next thing she knows it is over. The music fades, and somehow she has ended up on one knee in front of China, head bowed and almost touching the seated woman's knee, hair spilling out of her bun and brushing against the silk of the nations flowing robe.

For a moment Russia doesn't move, and the only noise in the hall is her own labored breathing.

Then, there is a soft sound, and she sees a droplet of water hit the silk in front of her. And when she looks up at where the nation sits elevated above her and her breath catches.

China is weeping. She is looking down at Russia, fat tears spilling out of her golden-brown eyes, dripping down the bridge of her nose and falling until they hit the silk of her robe. She is visibly trembling, but she is completely silent.

Russia is transfixed. For a moment she cannot react, move, _breathe_, because China is so beautiful when she cries.

Then her senses return to her and she twists her body, motioning toward her musicians, ordering them out of the hall with a sharp glare. She knows they are bewildered at the scene taking place before them, but they know better to question their nation, so they obey. And then they are alone.

She turns back to the weeping nation, and she whispers, more out of honest curiosity than concern. "China? China, why are you crying?"

The nation before her lowers her eyes, but the tears do not stop. "You danced so beautifully," she whispers, and her pretty voice, which so often reminds Russia of the chiming of bells, now sounds somber and forlorn, like a funeral toll. "I'll never be able to dance like that."

Russia frowns, confused, but China must have mistaken the reason for her frown, because she immediately begins apologizing and trying to wipe away the wetness from her cheeks. "Oh Russia, I'm sorry, it is selfish for me to be crying like this-"

But Russia does not care about the selfishness of others, so she interrupts the other nation. "But you could learn. To dance like me. You could learn, you could be better than I am." _Always better, always better than me._

And for a minute China pauses, hand still to her face, and then she lowers it, smiling at Russia through her tears. "No... No I can not," she says, and then she begins to shift, pulling at the silk over her legs, pulling it away until her skinny, pale knees are exposed, before pulling one of her legs out from under her, sticking it out for Russia to see.

And Russia can not believe what she sees.

China's foot is small, not larger than that of a child, and looked twisted and deformed, with a large round bulge on top, just after the woman's delicate ankle, and at the end, was what Russia assumed to be toes, but too small and pointed, and the entire foot was covered in a silk shoe, which was so pretty with it's delicate embroidery covering such a wrong looking, twisted foot, it was almost laughable.

But Russia does not laugh. She does not think of laughing, because all she can do is stare at the broken looking foot, feeling another strange, dark, hungry feeling swell inside her, but it was not like before.

"How-" gasps Russia, unable to stop herself from cradling the foot with a gentleness that is surprising to her, marveling at how it fit in just one of her hands. "What-"

"Isn't it beautiful?" asks China, with such pride and adoration in her voice that it legitimately shocks Russia. "It was hard to get them so small, and they still hurt some, but I think it's worth it..."

Russia forces her eyes away from the foot, looking up at the small, shy smile on China's face. "You think this is beautiful?"

Immediately the Asian nation's smile vanishes, turning into a scowl. "Oh, I forgot. You westerners never understand the beauty of a bound foot."

"Bound..." Russia's eyes fall back to the foot. Bound. So that's what it is. China had not been born like this; she had done this to herself. Russia wonders of the process, how her foot must have been twisted and broken to get such a peculiar shape, and she could imagine it all now, bones cracking, flesh twisting, China crying but not trying to stop it because she _wanted_ this torture,_wanted_ the pain... The feeling without a name that had been swelling in Russia felt like it was going to bubble out of her now, consume her totally, and Russia welcomed the feeling as she stroked the shape of the small, twisted foot.

"Look," comes China's voice from above her, and Russia could hear that the nation was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "If you think they are hideous I am not making you look at them-"

And then she stars to pull away and Russia's hand clamps down, wrapping firmly around the woman's thin ankle.

"No!" she hisses harshly, then remembers to take care to soften her voice. "No. I don't think they're hideous. Not at all." Again, she took the hand that was gripping China's ankle, stroking the ugly thing before her. "In fact, I think it's _beautiful._"

And she did think it was beautiful. It was ugly and unnatural looking, and Russia loved that, she loved the ugliness and the wrongness, and above all she loved how imperfect it looked. She loved that China did not see how ugly and wrong and imperfect it was, loved that the _oh so perfect_ nation is convinced that it was none of these things.

This, all of this, made China's feet beautiful.

She tightens her grip on China's ankle and hears her hiss in what must be pain, but she does not make any move to loosen her grip.

"So beautiful," she whispers like she is holding some precious jewel. "So very beautiful... May I take off your shoe?"

Again China stiffens and futilely tries to pull away. "Wha- N-No. That's not the point. It's not beautiful without-"

"I want to see." Russia insists, running her fingers over the pretty embroidered flowers and then before she can think about she is dipping her head and running her tongue along the foot in her hand, delighting at the way China gasps and half-heartedly tries to twist out of her grasp. "Please China. Let me see."

She glances up in time to see China's face, looking bewildered and flushed, opening her mouth as if to say something, only to close it again. Then she tries again.

"You-?" starts China, like it's a question, but then she stops and starts again. "You... You may."

Russia has to hold herself back, curb her instincts as she releases China, watching as the woman slowly pulls her leg up, pulling off the delicate shoe, and Russia holds her breath as China slowly, slowly, removes the white sock that continues to hide the flesh of her foot.

And when she sees China's foot her heart thumps in excitement, heating up in a way she never has before.

They are wonderfully unnatural, with no arch to speak of, foot apparently folded in half, toes twisted over and under the foot, only the largest toe pointing forward, and oh how it must have hurt, because her foot is not bleeding or freshly broken, no, this is old, this was broken and held that way, forced to heal and grow in a way they weren't meant to.

Russia thinks of her own feet, how much they hurt as they are broken, of how they are raw and bruised, how their pain and ugliness pale in comparison to the deformed thing in front of her, and she smiles.

"They're not supposed to be seen like this," says China, suddenly unable to meet Russia's eyes, and Russia notices how the normal sure, powerful nation is acting shy vulnerable, as if it were not just her foot that was naked, but all of her, and that delights Russia all the more. "The beauty does not come from the process, it comes from the product, so it's understandable if you-"

And then her words halt and turn into a gasp as Russia's mouth descends on China's foot once again, this time wrapping her mouth around it, taking as much of the tiny foot as she could into her mouth.

China gasps breathily, twisting at the sensation, but not trying to pull away, and Russia runs her tongue across the skin, feeling the shape in a way far more intimate than before.

"Oh, Russia, th-that's not- _oh-_" gasps China, and Russia delights in the sound of her voice, half confused and half titillated, completely vulnerable and submissive. Yes, yes _this_ is how Russia wants China to be. Weak and vulnerable and submitting to her. A dark part of Russia wants to push China down now, take her against her will and listen to China cry, cry like she must have when her feet were broken, and just like with that she would cry, but secretly she would love it, want it, want _her._

But no. Russia knows better, she knows that China is still a powerful nation despite how deliciously breakable she looks at the moment, and she knows that if she were to try China would cry out and the guards that litter the palace would have her head, and if they didn't then her boss surely would have it for ruining the tentative bonds they were establishing in China.

No. No, China must agree to this. She must convince China to agree to this.

She releases China's foot from her mouth, once again trailing over it with her fingers, letting one hand cup the heel as she stroked it with the other, then slowly, carefully, she let the fingers trail up, stroking up to her ankle and up more, wrapping her hand around China's soft, pale calf.

"China..." she whispers, squeezing the leg in her hand. "China... let me..."

China looks unsure and says nothing, but Russia trails her hand up again, rubbing the back of her knee, and locks eyes with the older woman, whispering "Please," and China flushes more, biting her lip, before nodding her consent.

Russia did not bother to hide her self-satisfied smirk as she slides her hand up farther to China's inner thigh, releasing China's foot so she could use that hand to guide China's other leg out from under her, pausing to strip that bound foot as well before spreading China's legs.

As Russia continues to kneel, China's groin is just below face level with Russia and fully exposed to her, and she can feel China trembling beneath her fingers, and Russia wonders if the older nation is scared. She likes to think she's scared. She likes to think she is terrified, and a virgin, because that would just be more power she has over the older, stronger, beautiful nation. (She knows that it is almost certainly not true, but she wishes it was. She wishes she had power over China, _real_ power, but she does not, and she will take what she can.)

She wastes no time in slipping her fingers up and inside China, and China responds immediately, moaning and letting her eyes slip shut, and despite herself Russia is once again taken by China's angelic beauty, her perfection.

_No._

Gritting her teeth, Russia grabs one of China's feet, trying to remind herself that no, China's not perfect. China is just as fragile and flawed as anyone, she is not so superior to Russia, she can't be, she just _can't_ be.

"More," moans China, and Russia complies, pumping her fingers faster inside China, and inside China is soft and wet and warm and it feels good and right around Russia's fingers, and Russia hates that. She hates how good it feels and how pretty she thinks China is and how the heat building at her own groin. She's not supposed to be feeling good, her head isn't supposed to be clouding in lust, she's supposed to be in control, in control of China, _of herself._

But China has caught Russia's shoulders and is gently tugging upward, moaning her name in an entirely too inviting way, and the next thing Russia knows she's obeying China's silent request, pushing up so she is face to face with China and is forced to release her foot, and then they are falling back on the platform. Then she is over China, but it's not like in her fantasy, because China is moaning in pleasure, arms wrapped around her, and Russia does not no how to feel about that.

_(She has never made anyone feel good before, that is not in her nature, no one but herself, but now...)_

"Oh Russia..." moans China, rocking against her hand, still trembling and blushing but looking so beautiful, why, _why does she still look so beautiful,_ Russia has seen her flaws now, _she shouldn't find her so beautiful still._

And then China arches, throwing her head back as she cries out, clenching around Russia in completion.

Russia watches her, waits until her climax is finished, and then she withdraws her fingers and leans back, looking at China, how she is sprawled out now, long hair tangled, silks rumpled, flushed and sweating.

Russia still cannot name the feeling inside of her.

She turns her head and she can see China's bare feet once again, and they still look strange and unnatural to her eyes.

Nothing has changed.

_Nothing has changed._ It hits Russia like a realization. Below her China is breathing hard and looking mussed, and her feet are small and strangely shaped, _but nothing has changed. _China is still beautiful, and kind and everything Russia is not. Her feet have changed nothing. Her being dominated has changed nothing. She is not prefect. But she never was, was she?

China has never been perfect. But neither has Russia. And if China, angelic, lovely China, is imperfect, what does that make Russia? Russia, Russia who hurts people, who is jealous and wanted to break China and rape China.

Nothing.

It doesn't make her anything, because China is still better than her. _Always better, always always always..._

Russia's moment of painful clarity is interrupted by China sitting up, and touching her shoulder gently. "Russia?" she asks gently. "Russia? What's wrong Russia? Why are you crying?"

Russia had not realized she was crying, and she does not care, because all she can focus on is how soft and warm China is, soft and warm in every way, and in that moment she can't stand it. She hates it, hates her. _(It is not true. She does not hate China, not at all, but it is easier to think that to admit who it is she really hates.)_

"I'm fine" she says with sudden coldness, standing suddenly and looking down at China, not bothering to wipe away the wetness from her face.

China looks up at her, confused, brown eyes wide, strands of hair falling in her face, and then Russia turns away. "This was fun China, but I'm afraid I have to go. My boss will be expecting me."

"But-" China starts to address the obvious lie, but stops. "Alright Russia. I will see you next time."

Russia does not look back as she nods before fleeing from the room. She does not want to think about the next time she will see China, and how China will smile at her and neither will mention this encounter. She does not want to think about how her fingers still feel wet, or how her chest is hurting like her heart wants to fall out.

She does not want to think about China at all. She wants to forget her, forget how she looks and sounds and feels, wants to forget her smiles, forget her twisted feet and forget how warm she is.

But she knows she won't be able to.

**The End.**


End file.
